Post by Torture on Jun 24, 2006 0:03:56 GMT -5
- Heavy breathing. Huge breaths in and out. We start from the floor. Sweat covering the carpet. A tread-mill going about as fast as you think it could go. Muscle shining legs glisten from the sweat that pours out from them. Red basketball shorts wave across his thighs with every bounce from his white tennis shoes. No shirt. No tanktop, just the tats that say "Natasha" and "Benjamin" across his right shoulder. "Home" across his chest. "Torture" across his shoulder blades is if it was a jersey with his name on it. Drenched in his own pool of sweat. His short hair all combed down, not by purpose, just by the liquid that's now taken over his body on the outside. Torture's running what seems like a 100 miles per hour.
- More heavy breathing. It gets worse. More sweat rains down like a Washington State Morning in the Spring time. Torture hits a button and the tread-mill comes to a slower pace, and even more slower, untill coming to a complete stop. Right as it does so, Torture hits his knees, and tears sprinkle down from his eyes. While on his knees, the tread-mill slides him off onto his carpet. Torture, red-eyed and all lays his forehead on the tread-mill thats now came to a halt.
Every ounce of me.. is gone...
- Torture blacks out for a few minutes. His head makes a puddle of sweat ontop of the tread-mill. Nothing is moving in the house. Other than the constant heartbeat from Torture. That and his lungs sucking in more air than a drowning child in a pool unattended. He begins to move. His arms first.. he finds the hardwood floor with his palms and pushes himself up. He bends his body upward. The one and only uses every neck muscle to lift his face from the tread-mill. He looks up and as soon as his eyes open, Torture goes still. Not moving a muscle. His eyes drift into his kitchen window. What Torture see's is something he'd never thought he'd see again.
Tasha and Benjamin?
- Think of a place where you were most happiest. Could be the last day of school. The first time you had sex. Maybe your first marraige. Maybe your first child. Think of the time that made you smile the biggest, the loudest and the brightest smile you've ever known yourself to smile. Think of that happy time. Now, multiply that by ten thousand, and you've got the quarter of a hence of feeling of what Torture is feeling inside. His face doesn't move, still that hard-focused look he's had for the last half hour. But his eyes.. You can tell in Torture's eyes that this quick glance into a window, is the reflection that he will remember for a lifetime. Why do I say quick glance?
- Torture crashes down quicker than a New York minute. For what seemed like an eternity. Forever. What seemed like sixty-five years, eight months and three days, was only one second. And for that second, everything was lifted. No World Title match. No J.J. Biggs. No expectations. Nothing. Just, Torture, his wife and his step-son. Could a kitchen window reflection in a run down apartment in the heart of a city called Los Angeles, bring that much impact on someones life? Torture just lays on the floor in the fetal position. The hardwood floor is going to act as a pillow, a blanket, and a loving memory of what he used to have.. for now.
- More heavy breathing. It gets worse. More sweat rains down like a Washington State Morning in the Spring time. Torture hits a button and the tread-mill comes to a slower pace, and even more slower, untill coming to a complete stop. Right as it does so, Torture hits his knees, and tears sprinkle down from his eyes. While on his knees, the tread-mill slides him off onto his carpet. Torture, red-eyed and all lays his forehead on the tread-mill thats now came to a halt.
Every ounce of me.. is gone...
- Torture blacks out for a few minutes. His head makes a puddle of sweat ontop of the tread-mill. Nothing is moving in the house. Other than the constant heartbeat from Torture. That and his lungs sucking in more air than a drowning child in a pool unattended. He begins to move. His arms first.. he finds the hardwood floor with his palms and pushes himself up. He bends his body upward. The one and only uses every neck muscle to lift his face from the tread-mill. He looks up and as soon as his eyes open, Torture goes still. Not moving a muscle. His eyes drift into his kitchen window. What Torture see's is something he'd never thought he'd see again.
Tasha and Benjamin?
- Think of a place where you were most happiest. Could be the last day of school. The first time you had sex. Maybe your first marraige. Maybe your first child. Think of the time that made you smile the biggest, the loudest and the brightest smile you've ever known yourself to smile. Think of that happy time. Now, multiply that by ten thousand, and you've got the quarter of a hence of feeling of what Torture is feeling inside. His face doesn't move, still that hard-focused look he's had for the last half hour. But his eyes.. You can tell in Torture's eyes that this quick glance into a window, is the reflection that he will remember for a lifetime. Why do I say quick glance?
- Torture crashes down quicker than a New York minute. For what seemed like an eternity. Forever. What seemed like sixty-five years, eight months and three days, was only one second. And for that second, everything was lifted. No World Title match. No J.J. Biggs. No expectations. Nothing. Just, Torture, his wife and his step-son. Could a kitchen window reflection in a run down apartment in the heart of a city called Los Angeles, bring that much impact on someones life? Torture just lays on the floor in the fetal position. The hardwood floor is going to act as a pillow, a blanket, and a loving memory of what he used to have.. for now.
